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Big eyes blinked at him in the darkened room, bright and watchful and oblivious. She was going to need a bottle soon. And a change, and a sleep. Sometime in the next half hour, he was going to have to gather up the energy to stop gazing at her, and get out of this armchair.
“Good girl,” murmured John heavily, letting her grasp his finger and jiggling her little fist. “You’re going to be fine, aren’t you? ‘Course you are, I’ll make sure of it.”
He blinked leaden eyes, and she was gone.
The flood of panic roused him out of the full-body lethargy. He felt beside himself in the chair, at first carefully and then increasingly desperately. Had he fallen asleep? Had he let her slip out of his arms? Had she hit the ground? Again?
Or… oh, God, had they taken her, while he wasn’t watching? No, please God no, they hadn’t—
“I have her, John,” said Sherlock, seemingly from a long way away. When John looked up, the little pink-suited bundle was in the other man’s arms, watching Sherlock with wide, enraptured eyes. “You were asleep for less than a minute. You really should go up to bed.”
“No, I can’t, I need to look after—”
“I’m not an idiot, John. I can mind a baby for a few hours while you get some much-needed sleep.”
John blinked at Sherlock without understanding, standing close and barely keeping himself from snatching Jessica back. That was his daughter; he needed to be holding her, and he needed her to be safe.
“Because only an idiot,” said Sherlock, and there was something wrong with his voice, it didn’t sound right, but his face was its usual blank, “tries to care for a baby alone, without letting anyone help, while he’s grieving. Only an idiot locks his friends out of his house, won’t put the baby down, won’t look after himself. You haven’t slept for three days, John, haven’t talked to anyone, haven’t seen daylight.”
“You mustn’t open the curtains!” protested John quickly, darting a nervous look at the heavy drapes drawn over the windows. The spill of the sun crept around the edges, trying to get in, and he wanted to go over to make sure they were closed all the way, but that would take him further from Jessica, and it wasn’t safe, she wasn’t safe, and anyway then they’d know someone was in here, and then they’d come for her. Again.
“I won’t open the curtains, John,” promised Sherlock. “She'll be safe with me, I swear it.”
“Is the door locked? The door was locked,” protested John. “How are you even in here? Did you unlock the door?” The panic was swelling—he needed to check, but he needed Sherlock to give Jessica back first.
“The door is locked, John. I made sure. Mycroft has a team stationed outside. Hand-picked, completely loyal. We both checked them all personally.”
“No, you need to get out of here,” said John. “It’s not safe. You need to find them, or they might come back.” If there was nothing else, he was certain of that. He tried to snatch the baby back, but Sherlock wouldn’t let her go. “Sherlock, what if they come back for her!”
“Mycroft has it well in hand, John,” said Sherlock. “And in the meantime, if anyone comes for her, then they will have to go through me.”
“They did go through Mary!” pleaded John. “They shot her! She was holding Jessica!”
“They were after Mary,” said Sherlock firmly. “Not a five-week old baby. You know this. She had enemies, lots of them, but whoever killed her didn’t touch your daughter. They could have. But they didn’t, John. And Mycroft will make sure they never will.”
“How can you be sure?” demanded John, frantic. “I had to clean Mary’s blood out of her hair! You need to make sure they don’t come back, Sherlock, you need to make sure, because I can’t—I can’t do that again! You shouldn’t be holding her, I’m the one who’ll keep her safe. I don’t want her to get your blood on her!”
“I’ll be safe,” soothed Sherlock, and somehow John became aware that he’d been manoeuvered halfway up the stairs by Sherlock’s hand on his elbow, Jessica still cradled in Sherlock’s arm. “We’ll all be safe, John, I promise. Up to bed now. I’ll keep Jessica beside you. We won’t go anywhere else. Mycroft will call when it’s done. Mary’s identity is solid, and a British citizen killed on British soil is well within his mandate. He’s taking care of it.”
“Sherlock,” said John, and his voice broke as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at himself. The curtains here were shut, too, the warm glow of lamps the only illumination. He was in a bathrobe. Slippers. He let them fall off his feet. He hadn’t changed since he’d showered Mary’s blood off them both, clutching the squirming Jessica to his chest and trying not to remember the sound of the gunshot, the sight of Mary limply dropping her to the ground. “I can’t do this, Sherlock,” he said. “I can’t.”
“No, you can’t,” agreed Sherlock, and propped himself against the headboard on Mary’s side of the bed, knees up in front of him and settling the baby in the indentation between his thighs. The two of them stared at each other in apparently mutual fascination. “You can’t do this alone, John,” he said. “Not like you’ve been trying. But you have me. And you have Jessica. There’s three of us here. You’re not alone. And it will all seem easier when you’ve had some sleep, John. So sleep, John. Sleep.”
Reluctantly, John lay down, staring at his tiny daughter cradled by the lanky consulting detective beside him.
Sherlock was frowning at Jessica, moving a finger in front of her face, testing her gaze. He was right that John was too tired to function anymore, but they wouldn’t be able to stay beside him like he’d promised, and John didn’t know what he’d do if she wasn’t here when he woke up.
“She’ll need—”
“A bottle in half an hour, yes, it’s cooling on the nightstand. Then a change, then I’ll put her down beside you for a nap.”
“How do you know her routine…” breathed John, half amazed, half asleep already.
“Obvious, John. Just look at her,” said Sherlock, sounding like himself again. “The age of the milk stains on her collar, the rumpling of her suit, the contents of the kitchen bin, and of course…”
John was all the way asleep before he heard the rest.